Allowable
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: HGOW: Oliver raised his glass to Hermione and sent another wink in her direction. "To your radiant beauty, then, Granger," he tapped his glass against hers and laughed boyishly as she shyly placed her glass to her lips once more.
1. Meeting the Man

**Chapter One:  
**_Meeting the Man_

It hadn't been long after the Final Battle before Harry and Ron settled their minds on their future career aspirations. Harry had always wanted to be an Auror, so that had been laid out for him the moment he'd made the final decision to become one, being the savior of the wizarding world and all. Ron – lighthearted and never capable of keeping a serious conversation, let alone a serious occupation – had been eager to pursue a Quidditch career for the Chudley Cannons. He wasn't the best player in the Quidditch League, surely, but he was part of the team and he was settling for it, at least temporarily.

Hermione, studious and determined as she had always been, was baffled as to where to settle in. Job offers were abundant, and owls flooded in by the day with a new proposition for the talented, intelligent witch, but she didn't know what she wanted to do. She didn't think she'd _mind_ teaching, per say, but she didn't know that she'd enjoy it, despite Minerva's incessant begging to join her on staff at Hogwarts. There were several departments within the Ministry that wanted her, including the Department of Mysteries themselves, but Hermione wasn't terribly keen on working for that organization at all, corrupt as it was.

She had so many options available, and it irked her that she'd never come to a firm decision about what it was that she wanted. She'd given thought once or twice to writing a book, but that didn't seem to be her calling. She had no doubt that she could write one – after all, she had quite the heart for it – but she didn't really have the drive to write about anything in particular.

She forced herself into further studies at the Merlin Institute – a very prodigious school that very few students were accepted into – and, strangely enough, she found herself to be more bored than ever. She missed the adrenaline rush that she faced in battle, and the slight wonder of the unknown, despite how nerve wracking she recalled it being. She didn't want to be an Auror, she'd decided several months prior, but studying was not what she wanted to be doing, either.

She went to the administration at the university and politely notified them that she would finish the semester and then withdraw her name from the rosters. They were sorely disappointed.

"Are you quite sure, Madame?" An admissions officer by the name of Williams asked pleadingly. "You've been quite an asset to our school these past months."

Forcing a small smile, she cordially said, "I'm quite sure, sir. I'll not claim to be a genius, as there are more than a few books in your plentiful library that I've not yet read, but I think I've finally satisfied my quest for knowledge. I've learned all that I feel is necessary; now I wish to find something to do with the information."

And that, Hermione thought, was precisely what she was missing. During her Hogwarts days, she'd always had some mission to set out on with Harry and Ron. Her vast expanse of various learned things had been needed then. They had tested her capacity and she had soared through every test, but the written exams were no longer quenching her thirst for adventure.

She'd spent more time in the past few months holed up in the library than ever before. Despite the fact that it was a very impressive library, she found herself yearning to be active and participant in something where her knowledge could be applied, and she simply hadn't discovered what that was yet.

As the end of the semester approached, Hermione decided that since she had very little else to do with her time, she would go for her collegiate degree. She had but a mere few months, but that had never stopped her before. She needed a task, and as minimal as this one seemed, she thrust herself into it, heart and soul. By graduation, her counselors and the admissions offices were astonished. In her six months there, she had completed the courses and coursework that earned her a Masters in Charms, and a Minor in Potions.

The act had never before been performed, and by doing so she earned a plaque, valedictorian for the class of 1999 – which she'd never intended to be apart of, really – and several more job offers that she didn't particularly want.

"We've always known our girl was a genius," Fred sighed dramatically at her graduation.

"Now it's been proven," George chimed, "and the rest of the world is as aware of it as we are!"

"Congrats, Granger!" The boys chimed, scooping her up in a double hug.

Hermione laughed lightly and thanked them, oddly not feeling very celebratory. "Boys, put me down, please?"

"Party spoiler," they grumbled, but planted her feet firmly back on the ground as requested.

"Now for the million galleon question," Fred said in a voice that would be quite fitting of a game show host, while patting his hands in quick succession against his belly to mock a drum roll.

"What are you going to do with your life now, Granger?" George held a rolled up pamphlet against his mouth to mimic a microphone, then placed it close to Hermione's lips to wait for her answer.

Shrugging, Hermione murmured, "I haven't a clue."

"Could always work for us!" Fred chirped.

"We could always use the likes of a brilliant mind like yours," George praised.

The twins, as kind and caring as they were to her, were overcompensating. They were the only two that showed up at her graduation, as commendable as it was. Harry and Ron had slowly grown apart from her, and though it killed her, she couldn't fault them for it. They had careers and girlfriends, and they were quite busy managing their own lives. She felt neglected and lost without them, but there wasn't much that could be done for it.

The Harry and Ron of the present were not the same ones that she had known prior to the battle. The Harry and Ron that she'd known had needed her around. They had _wanted_ her around, even. But as they strategized for the battle and made plans, they had discovered that perhaps she wasn't quite as indispensable as they had thought. They'd tried to keep up a friendship, but none of them were terribly keen on maintaining it.

Her boys had changed. Ron, although centered more on acting like a team instead of a one-man show, quite enjoyed flaunting his female fans and using them to satisfy his 'manly desires,' as he'd once called them, and Hermione didn't approve of that Ron at all. Harry, savior of the wizarding world, had closed himself off from the world – except Ron – and thrown himself into his Auror duties with rigorous force. She respected that, but in the process of doing so he shunned her, and that hurt more than she and Ron's spats about his influx of women.

Fred and George had tried to console her, and they'd become quite close in the process, but they and she were aware that there was much more going on in her mind and heart than the indifference and uncertainty that revealed itself on the surface. The two boys were good friends to her, and she wouldn't lie to them, but she didn't tell them all of what she was feeling, either.

They knew that she hid things from them, and they were alright with that. Fred and George were mainly focused on keeping her spirits lifted, and while that worked sometimes for small intervals of time, it never lasted.

"We should celebrate, Forge!"

"Most definitely, Gred!"

"Perhaps not," Hermione shied away, wrinkling her nose at the protruding camera flashes and reporters that surrounded her. This wasn't new; they'd been this way since the end of the final battle. She'd come into a rather sizeable sum of money as thanks for her services against Voldemort, and several of them were not only hoping for an interview with her about her view on the battle, but also in knowing what she planned to do with the extra money. And now, in addition, they needed her photo to write an article about her recent accomplishment in her education. "I think I'd rather stay in tonight, if neither of you mind."

"'Course not," Fred slung an arm around her shoulders.

"We'll bring the party to you, my friend," George assured.

"Just us two," Fred promised.

"Us two, plus two," George amended.

"And two more, too!" Fred grinned enthusiastically.

Sighing in resignation, she let the twins continue their game and increase the amount of guests permitted. There wasn't anything that she could do, really, to get out of the mess that they were creating, but she hoped that they wouldn't get too carried away with it. She didn't typically enjoy large crowds of people, but tonight especially she knew that she would act a very poor host.

Spotting Hermione's upset demeanor, the twins silently vowed that their celebration would involve only the three of them, plus Oliver, who they'd originally promised the evening to. They had hoped that Hermione wouldn't be as down as she was, but now that they'd noticed it, they couldn't very well leave her to mourn for the evening, but they weren't keen on calling plans off with Oliver, as well, as they hadn't seen him in several months due to busy schedules.

They walked back to her flat in almost-silence, but for the occasional quip or two that couldn't be helped in the presence of the Weasley twins. The press was barely held at bay by a small shield that she'd thought to put up just before leaving the school's property. When the boys left her, Hermione carefully removed her valedictorian sash, and then her cap and gown, carefully folding them and laying them on her bed. After staring at them for a moment, pondering over the developments of her life, Hermione banished the ensemble to her closet and changed into a pair of jeans and a comfortable pink jumper.

Hermione moved to the kitchen and deftly started throwing ingredients together to make a myriad of food assortments. She wasn't particularly hungry, but cooking had always been a relaxing hobby that she and her mother had done together to calm their nerves. There was a small pang upon the thought of her mother, and another one as she inevitably connected her mother to her father, both of whom died during the war.

Brushing thoughts of her parents away, Hermione continued cooking and baking until she had a full spread of baked potatoes, mash, roast, pasta, rolls, cooked carrots, cookies, cupcakes, a full-sized cake, a chocolate torte, and a special chocolate raspberry truffle cheesecake for George, who she knew wasn't a huge fan of vanilla icing.

She'd been taking a tray of chips from the oven when the doorbell rang, and she hurriedly placed it over the stove so as not to burn the counters before rushing to the door to admit Fred and George, plus Oliver Wood, whom she hadn't seen face-to-face since her third year in school.

She cast them all a small, polite smile, and admitted them inside.

"Merlin, Granger!" George cried.

"We only left a few hours ago!"

"How'd you manage the feast?"

"But what a lovely feast it is!" Fred snatched a chip off the newly finished tray, and bit into it before Hermione could warn him that they were likely to be very hot.

"Water!" Fred yelped.

Hermione immediately _accio_'d a glass over and took it to the sink to fill it with cool water. Fred snatched it from her hand before she finished filling it and gulped it down in several swallows.

"It's lovely to see how much the two of you have matured," Oliver's thick Scottish burr chuckled lowly.

"The twins?" Hermione raised a brow skeptically. "Maturing? Not likely, Wood."

Several things could be said in favor of the twins – laughter, humility, kindness, and brazenness to name a few – but maturity was not and had never been one of their positive attributes, and Hermione had given up on chastising it after admitting that they wouldn't be Fred and George without a lack of maturity.

"Well if it can't be said of them, it may at least be said of you," Wood acknowledged with a wink. "You were a scrawny little thing, last I saw of you."

Offering a small smile as she was reminded of her Hogwarts days with Harry and Ron, Hermione then shrugged.

"Ah yes," George sighed. "We remember those times!"

"All bushy hair and eager to please!" His twin contributed merrily.

"Never would've thought you'd grow into the stunning woman before us today," George whispered conspiratorially.

"Still got a bit of bushy hair, though," Fred fingered a lock of her curly, unmanageable hair and twirled it around his index finger.

Hermione rolled her eyes and smacked his hand away from her. "Apologies," she murmured, retreating back to the kitchen, slightly uncomfortable with Oliver's presence. She hadn't exactly been very social in recent months, so anyone's company would be a bit awkward, but she hadn't seen him since she was fourteen and she hardly remembered anything significant about him except his love for Quidditch, which still wasn't a topic she immensely enjoyed speaking of.

She heard Wood and the twins exchanging banter in the living room, mostly over her overloaded bookcases and her new kitten, Bowie, who prowled around their feet, sniffing at them ominously as if they were unwelcomed in his home.

Removing a bottle of wine from her liquor cabinet, Hermione thought to grab a couple flutes to fill with the red substance. She wasn't a fan of drinking, really, but she could appreciate wines and tastes, and she knew that her friends were trying to make this a good night for her, so she would put an effort into enjoying their company and offering a celebratory drink.

Stopping before she poured Oliver's wine, she called out, "Do you like red or white wine?"

"Red," the twins called out predictably.

"Whatever's handy, I suppose," Oliver followed.

She poured the last glass and levitated both the wine and the glasses out to her coffee table. She finally levitated the roast and other supper items to the dinner table and joined them in the sitting room.

"To Granger and her academic prowess!" The twins chorused, and Hermione wondered if they'd agreed upon a toast in her absence. Even for them, it was a bit too rehearsed.

A slight flush spread over her cheeks, but she raised her glass nevertheless and tapped it against those of her guests.

"You know, you're rather cute when you blush," Fred declared.

"'Course, we're both taken so we shouldn't be speaking such traitorous words," George said, nudging Oliver's side.

"But Ollie here's still single, aren't you, boy-o?" Fred grinned, mocking his mate's Scottish accent.

"Go on then, Wood," George ribbed him again. "Tell her she's pretty."

"You won't get in trouble for it, you see," Fred continued effortlessly.

"Whereas we'd have to deal with the wrath of Angelina and Katie," George faked a shiver.

"You know how terrifying they can be," Fred nodded decisively, and threw his arm around Oliver's shoulder once more, while Hermione took an unnaturally large swallow of her wine – that and her yet-to-fade blush being her only outward signs of embarrassment.

Going along with Fred and George's bit, Oliver raised his glass to Hermione and sent another wink in her direction. "To your radiant beauty, then, Granger," he tapped his glass against hers and laughed boyishly as she shyly placed her glass to her lips once more.

"Young love," Fred rubbed a fist over his heart, imitating a touching motion.

"Brings a tear to my eye," George wiped away a pretend tear from his cheek.

"Enough, boys," Hermione said finally, pinching the bridge of her nose lightly. "Finish your wine, and then we can eat."

"Dessert first?" George as good as panted as he spotted the chocolate raspberry truffle cheesecake on the table. "Pleeeeaaassseeee?" He begged.

"You'll eat first, as has been tradition since the beginning of time, George Weasley," she admonished naturally, a vague flare of her old nature prevailing through her words as she stood and set the table for them.

"The beginning of time?" Fred pouted. "But what about new traditions?"

"We'll make some later," Hermione countered. "I've made supper, and you're going to eat it if it kills you, Fred."

Dinner was, to Hermione's astonishment, rather pleasant. Fred and George teased her throughout, but that was normal and somewhat comforting. Oliver surprised her, though. She'd always known him to be a Quidditch fanatic, but she'd never really had a conversation with him. He was rather playful, but softer and less blunt than the twins were.

He offered several winks and smiles throughout dinner, which she thought to be a bit endearing. She only found it endearing because it wasn't a flirty wink, merely a part of his nature.

She was quiet for most of the dinner, as was typical of her, but she enjoyed watching them argue, and she enjoyed the extra time to study her unexpected guest.

Wood had always been handsome – strong and tall, with a to-die-for accent straight from Scotland – but beyond that, she found herself to be quite taken with his hazel-green eyes. He had several freckles smeared over his face, and a wholehearted grin. His sandy hair was splashed with lighter streaks from the sun, courtesy of his outside Quidditch play. He was overall a very attractive man.

"What about you, Granger?" Wood startled her out of her examination of his lean muscle, and she raised her brow at him questioningly. "What do you do for a living?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't do anything, yet. I've just finished school."

"Any plans for where you want to go?" He asked, leaning forward interestedly. She liked how he listened; he didn't pretend or lend an ear on occasion. When he was interested, his whole body turned to the conversation and he listened quietly until the other participant was finished speaking.

"Not especially," she admitted. "I've had offers, but nothing really strikes my fancy."

"Huh," he said intelligently, while Fred and George murmured between themselves over something, looking entirely too suspicious to be ignored.

"Is there meaning behind that?" Hermione asked carefully.

"Well, no. I mean, maybe. I just always pegged you for a woman who knows what she wants," Wood confessed. "You've always been so driven and forceful with your studies; I just thought you had a specific thing in mind to put all of those smarts toward."

"I did, at the time," Hermione mumbled, taking another sip of her refreshed wine glass.

And that was true. She'd worked terribly hard at the start in order to impress her parents, and show them that she was above the average ranks in her new school, and that she was fitting in well, even if she wasn't. And then she had worked for Harry, and his protection, and the protection of her peers. And then she had fought against Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and had given her every waking moment to learning how to defeat him.

And then it was over, and she'd had nothing. She had no motivation, no cause to fight for or against, and her two best friends had all but deserted her for their own paths, which she still struggled not to resent them for.

The conversation slowly drifted away from her, until Fred and George simultaneously 'yawned,' murmuring about how late it was getting and how tired they were becoming, quickly escaping out the door and conveniently leaving their friend and famed Quidditch player behind.

"Do you get the feeling that they did that on purpose?" Oliver said in a mock-ironic tone.

"Mmm," Hermione hummed quietly. "They're rather good at creating awkward situations."

"You feel awkward?" Wood asked thoughtfully.

Hermione shrugged. "To my surprise, not as awkward as I might have thought. Though that could, admittedly, be attributed to the wine. I had a few more glasses than what was necessary, I suppose. But really, wine's never necessary, and I think it's alright to indulge a bit. After all, tonight was supposed to be a celebration, according to Fred and George, and as I'm in my own home I don't see any reason why I shouldn't be drinking. Aside from the fact that you're here, of course, which might be reason enough, but – "

"You're rather cute when you're tipsy," Oliver said amusedly, helping her put the leftovers in the refrigerator and the dirty dishes in the bubbly sink.

"No, I'm not," Hermione laughed – a musical little sound that Oliver found he hadn't heard all evening, and he wondered if perhaps she'd been putting on a show for the twins so that they would believe her to be having more fun than she truly was. "I ramble and rant and rave," she sighed, "and apparently I alliterate."

Oliver laughed as she led him back to the sitting room, and sat beside her on the couch with yet another glass of wine. "Well, here's to alliteration, then."

"Cheers," she murmured softly in agreement, and Oliver noticed her lips envelope the rim of the glass as she took a sip. He swallowed lightly, not adapted to feeling such strong attraction to a woman he hardly knew, and not entirely willing to ruin the possible friendship that was budding between them.

As she pulled the glass away, however, he noted that the wine had reddened her lips, and they stood out brightly in contrast to her beautiful, pale skin. "Fred and George were right," he said mindlessly. "You are quite striking, Granger."

"Thanks, I suppose," she shifted anxiously. "You aren't half-bad yourself, Wood, although I'm sure you've been made aware of the fact by many a woman before me. But I'm sure, for the sake of your confidence, that it shouldn't hurt to tell you once more."

The corner of his lips lifted as he admired her adorable tirade, and suddenly Hermione asked, "Are you drunk at all? Because I'm feeling a bit silly – rambling on like I am – and I can't help but hope that you might not remember it come tomorrow. Although I think I might be the only one forgetting anything, but – "

"Can I kiss you?" He interrupted, his heart racing wildly in his chest as her also-reddened-tongue emerged to swipe across her lips in an inadvertent but nevertheless intensely seductive manner.

"I – I don't know," Hermione furrowed her brow confusedly. "I don't think I've ever been asked that question before. I mean, I've _been_ kissed, but other men have just… _done_ it. But I'm a bit drunk right now – as we already established – and I'm not sure that it'd be the most intelligent idea. And you know how I'm supposed to be intelligent. But… it might be nice, just once, to do something that isn't entirely intelligent – like maybe letting you kiss me. But then again, there could be consequences," she huffed, frustrated.

"Do you ever stop thinking?" Oliver asked lightly, trying to make up his mind about whether or not he should kiss her, when she so very clearly had no idea whether or not to allow him the indulgence.

"Rarely," she divulged.

"Hm…" He murmured. "Call me cocky, Granger, but I might be able to change that."

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, waiting only long enough to feel the slight thud of her pulse against his fingers before he began tugging her toward him, giving her a choice to dismiss him if she so chose. She followed rather easily, to his surprise, and crawled comfortably into his lap.

Her weight on top of him felt genuinely like the best thing in the world to Oliver, and he chose to revel in the feeling for just a moment before he interrupted it with soft words and caresses. "Answer now, with the first word that comes to mind," he instructed gently, his hand trailing up her back and cupping the base of her neck, pulling it closer until he could feel her heated breath against his lips. "Can I kiss you?"

Instead of an answer, she closed the very minimal distance between their mouths and slanted her soft, red lips over his slightly chapped ones. Oliver's eyes slipped shut as he tangled his hand in the surprisingly soft curls at the underside of her neck. Her fingers slowly trailed from his forearm around the bend of his elbow and lightly gripped his shoulder, eliciting tingles as they traveled.

He questioningly peaked his tongue out to touch her lips, and as she sighed against his mouth, he accepted the invitation and plunged his tongue inward, her light moans and soft grunts spurring him forward and encouraging the sensual motions. Their lips smoothed over one another as they spoiled themselves with light petting, until Hermione carefully maneuvered them so that he was lying down across the couch, she straddling him and her back bending low so that her lips could hover over his.

Oliver's fingers dug into the curve of her hips, memorizing the feel of her – all curves, and dips, and soft skin – as he slowly slipped his hands under her jumper, rubbing against her hot flesh. She reacted instantly and shifted toward him, so that he could remove the cumbersome piece of clothing away from her.

"Hermione," he breathed against her lips, refusing to remove the jumper just yet, "do you want me to leave?"

"I have no idea," she murmured, pressing her mouth to his a bit harder, probing, licking and nipping at his bottom lip.

"Hermione," he said seriously, gritting his teeth through the fog of pleasure that threatened to overcome him, "_do you want me to leave?_"

"No," she shook her head, messy curls swaying lightly, and the moment the word left her lips, Oliver rolled them over so that he was on top of her, her knees bent and his hips in between them.

He lifted the hem of her jumper tantalizingly, and finally slipped it over her head, knuckles brushing the sides of her tummy and skimming the sides of her covered breasts. She lifted her arms for him as he did it, staring him in the eye for that brief moment, brown clashing with hazel as they both sought out the mutual need and lust within the depths of the other's irises.

Oliver lowered his mouth again, this time to her neck, sucking on the smooth skin there. He felt Hermione's fingers dawdling at the top of his button up shirt, and mentally cursed himself for wearing an article of clothing with so many buttons. She made quick work of it, and with every touch of her hands to his chest, Oliver breathed a moan into her ear, bringing a shiver from her.

He moved his arms around her ribs, fishing for the clasp of her bra and, after finding it, he silently unclipped it and threw the blasted material to the side. The action provided a new canvas for his wandering, itchy fingers to work on, and he instantly walked his hands up the slope of her breasts, taking them into his grasp and tweaking them softly.

"Oliver," she gasped, tossing her head back and arching into him like a bow. He tasted her shoulder, touching his tongue to her skin lightly as he journeyed toward the rosy bud at the center of her left breast and took it into his mouth. She sighed and mewled, and slowly lowered her body back to the couch as he moved downward, wordlessly undoing the button of her jeans and pulling them off, throwing them to the ground while his mouth busily pressed against her wet heat.

His tongue eagerly slipped inside, tasting her, lapping gently as she shuddered beneath him, grasping at the ends of his hair and holding him closer to her. "My God," she groaned, hips jerking upward against his mouth, and he smirked once – a rather unusual trait for him – and bit at her nub.

Oliver looked up to her, tousled hair spread around her head and beginning to stick against the sides of her face, mouth opened in silent ecstasy, eyes clenched tightly together. His first task accomplished, Wood slid back up her body pressing soft kisses to her stomach, the underneath of her breast, her collarbone, her chin, and then her lips. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath, all the while trailing her soft hands down his muscled arms and structured abs, warm brown eyes looking up at him questioningly as her fingers drew nearer to the clasp of his slacks.

He deliberately drew his hands down to her hips and pulled them against his, letting her feel his arousal. She blushed again, which he found somehow adoringly sweet, and continued to pull his slacks and boxers off. She kissed him then, passion radiating off of her, hot waves pouring from one into the other as she carefully took his length in her hands and stroked him softly, to the soundtrack of his grunts of approval.

"Stop," he muttered finally, reaching his arms around her lower back and splaying his fingers across her slick skin. She melted into him, and became liquid in his hands, her muscles arching into him and her limbs loose and willing. Oliver groaned. "Please," he murmured.

Hermione nodded her head, and he positioned himself at her entrance. She moaned in distinct pleasure as he slipped into her, filling her completely. They were still for a moment, or nearly so, hardly moving at all, until Hermione lifted her hips, which Oliver translated to mean 'go.'

Her hands were everywhere, dipping from his hips to his sides, scraping up his stomach, and clasping on his arms, nails digging in as he rocked against her harder, then faster. Her legs wrapped around him, and they both cried out at what the new position did for them, allowing him to go deeper and touch more of her.

Oliver latched onto her thighs, his fingers pressing, kneading, and he scraped his teeth over her neck, or her shoulder on occasion. She pulled on his neck until his lips met hers again, and she sighed against him in contentment before lifting her hips in time to his thrusts. He groaned into her mouth before her tongue darted in to taste, occasionally playing a teasing game with his own tongue and nipping it every now and then.

They were both sweating, thrusting, yearning for their release, and when they felt it approach, they quickened their speed, words tangling in moans and whispers of one another's name, begging, pleading for more.

Hermione's world spun in a wonderful mix of colors that she would forever associate with pure and eternal bliss. She knew nothing but for Oliver and his hot touches enflaming her skin, his weight above her as he stilled, climaxing after her. When he collapsed against her, she loosely held her arms around him, one draped over his back and the other hanging from his neck.

"I don't usually do this," Oliver tried weakly.

"Shush," Hermione murmured sleepily. "We'll talk in the morning."

Nodding, Oliver slipped off of her and lay beside her, capturing her in his arms, and Hermione couldn't help but feel properly ensconced, held safe in his strong arms, his naked chest against her back, and his hand clutched almost innocently around her breast – if that could ever be an innocent act.

When morning arrived, after a night of sleep that she hardly remembered having, Hermione woke up and marveled at how comfortable she felt against him. She reluctantly, after many moments of dozing, slipped out of his grasp and took a hot shower, tossing on only a robe before traipsing to the kitchen to make breakfast for them.

Oliver slept for a half hour or so after she showered, and he, while half-asleep, wandered into the kitchen after transfiguring himself a pair of sleep pants. His hair was mussed, his eyes bleary as he rubbed against them with his whole fist like a small child. Hermione thought him to be a most welcome sight for the early morning. She eyed his chest once more, tempted to touch it again, before she met his eyes and placed a dish of food before him at the counter.

"Morning," he grinned boyishly. "And thanks," he added, lifting a piece of toast and tipping it toward her to acknowledge the food that she'd prepared.

"Sure," she murmured back, leaning against the countertop by the sink as she watched him eat the breakfast spread eagerly, sipping on a mug of coffee. "Oliver?"

"Mm?" He looked up, his mouth full of omelet, and met her eyes carefully.

She pondered over what she wanted to say, and how to say it without coming off too strongly. Fuck it, she thought finally. "I haven't a clue what I want to do with my life, I'm not a very social creature, and I absolutely hate Quidditch. The press perpetually follows me around, which I'm sure you can relate to, and I have enough emotional baggage to last for a lifetime and then some. Fred and George Weasley are very high up on my list of favorite people at the moment – probably more so after the terrific favor they did me last night – and I think I've just decided that you're a man I'd very much enjoy getting to know better. I know we might've done a bit of this relationship business backwards, but I'd like to try it the right way."

Oliver scratched the back of his neck, casting a smile her way. "You're chatty in the mornings," he mumbled. "I'll have to remember that."

"Will you?" She raised her brow, trying to suss out whether he was giving a good signal or a bad one.

"Yeah," he said, holding his hand out to her and holding hers lightly after she'd surrendered it to him, rubbing his thumb over her knuckle while she approached him. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, and she tangled hers in his hair, embracing him slowly. "It's okay that you don't know what you're doing with your life right now. I don't need you to be social; that point is neither here nor there. I love Quidditch enough to make up for your hatred of it, and the press is not unfamiliar to me, although I doubt I've had as much of it as you have. Emotional baggage is okay, as long as you're willing to share it when you're ready. Fred and George Weasley are a couple of troublemaking pranksters, who I'd happily bless from here to heaven for what they did for me last night, if I had the power to do so. I'm dying to know more about the Golden Trio's famous brain, but even more so, I'd love to know the Hermione Granger I'm looking at right now. Perhaps we screwed up the order of things, but I don't suppose that makes dating unallowable, do you?"

Hermione laughed quietly, and pulled his neck back until she could easily reach his lips. She slanted her mouth over his in a long, slow kiss, her teeth capturing his bottom lip for a moment before she pulled away and rested her forehead against his, having the advantage in height because he was still seated on a stool at the counter. "No, I don't suppose dating's unallowable."

"Good," Wood declared, Scottish brogue sending shivers up her spine as he tightened his arms around her middle, hugging her tightly, before releasing her. "Now I can eat?"

"Yes," she chuckled quietly. "Now you can eat."


	2. Prelude to Love

**Chapter Two:  
**_Prelude to Love_

"So," Fred started, a teasing grin on his face as he slung an arm over Hermione's shoulder, "you and Ollie, eh?"

"We knew from the start that you were a perfect match," George nodded confidently.

"After all, we did light the spark for this little love grenade," Fred reminded, winking as she rolled her eyes and hopped up the step to the twins' shop. They had spent an hour or so walking around Diagon, and only now that they were coming back around to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes did they bring up Oliver.

"This was exactly what we planned all those months ago – "

"It was only two months ago," Hermione amended.

"Hush, Granger," Fred said, while his brother continued to speak over them.

"When we so generously allowed dear Wood to frequent your graduation party with us," George finished.

"Thanks for that," Hermione replied agreeably, frowning at a colorful contraption that she simply could not suss out. She placed it back on the shelf after deciding that she might be better off not knowing, and turned back to the twins. "Speaking of Oliver, he's recently decided that he wants me to watch one of his games, and he thinks that I should invite the two of you. Now, personally I thought I'd enjoy it much better _without_ the cumbersome commentary, but he reminded me oh-so-gallantly that because you two _are_ my friends, and you do _so_ love Puddlemore, it might be kind of me to include you."

"Why, Granger, that was so _utterly_ considerate of you!" Fred cried.

"We gladly accept your invitation, and request that we work out the particulars when convenient," George feigned a business-like tone.

"Here," Hermione chuckled, reaching into her pocket and removing two shiny, navy blue tickets with golden lettering. "They're for next Saturday, so don't make plans. If Angelina and Katie would like to go – which, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm sure that they will – I'll talk to Oliver and see if he can't wrangle a couple more tickets."

"You're so good to us," they chimed simultaneously.

"I try," Hermione responded, laughing.

"Granger?" Fred said, rather sedately, being that calmness was simply against the twins' nature.

"Mm?" She raised a brow curiously.

"You seem happy," George smiled softly.

"Ollie had best keep it that way," Fred declared.

"I think I am happy," she said quietly. "I still haven't a clue what to do with my life, but right now, with Oliver, I think I'm happy."

As she left the twins' shop a few minutes later, she reminisced over the last few weeks with Oliver. They had been on several dates, and had spent many nights staying in and talking, simply getting to know one another. The concept was odd for Hermione; she couldn't remember a time when someone had genuinely been interested in getting to know her, but Oliver had always seemed entirely fascinated by her. It was befuddling.

And she was absolutely riveted by him. She admired his adoration and devotion to his career, and was occasionally envious of it. He was so driven and focused on Quidditch and, though Hermione was not at all captured by the sport's allure, she was very much capable of supporting him in it.

The past two months felt much longer than they'd really been, regarding her new relationship. They had been to the movies, dined at several restaurants during the week, cuddled on her couch at home, and she'd visited his place a time or two as well. It had, of course, been plastered all over the papers, much to her chagrin, but Oliver chuckled and pecked her cheek lightly, announcing that he was proud to be seen beside her. That instant had perhaps been the most humbling in their relationship.

_Oliver held the door open for Hermione as they were led outside by the maître d' to the veranda, where they could easily enjoy the warm weather and the refreshing breeze. She smiled at him as she passed, and took his hand in hers after he'd followed her through._

_He held out her chair, as gentlemen were meant to, and after she thanked him they both glanced at the menu, quickly deciding what to eat._

_When the waiter came around to take their order, he paused partially through his introduction to stare at them. "Oh. Well, Merlin, I think I'd be afraid to show my face in public if I were the two of you, after the scandal they've made!"_

"_Excuse me?" Oliver responded confusedly, exchanging a baffled glance with Hermione, which she reflected._

"_Haven't you seen today's paper?" Marvin, their waiter, asked incredulously, losing any past sense of formality._

_Hermione's jaw tensed, but she shook her head. "You wouldn't happen to have one close by, would you, Marvin?"_

"_Well sure," he said. "I'll bring one out for you, madam."_

_He made to leave, but Oliver called him back, flashing a small smile in Hermione's direction. "We'd still like to order, if you wouldn't mind terribly."_

"_Oh!" Marvin answered, clearly flustered. "Absolutely. What can I get for you?"_

_After placing orders for tea and sandwiches, Marvin scurried off to the kitchens to place the order, and when he brought out their tea, he also handed them a copy of the day's paper. "Your sandwiches are coming shortly," he added, hurrying away as they unfolded the paper to reveal a large photo of the two of them, holding hands as they took small tastes of the ice cream cones that they were holding. They looked to be strolling around Hogsmeade Park, and Hermione remembered that walk quite clearly._

_The caption, splayed in large, bold black letters across the top, read _'Granger and Wood – An Infamous Couple' _and Hermione loathed to read what remained of the article, but ploughed through nevertheless._

Hermione Granger and Oliver Wood appear to be dating, but this reporter must wonder if this new couple arose due to attraction or seclusion. Although Oliver Wood may publicly be known for his place as keeper among the Puddlemore United team and sinfully attractive appearance, he has shown very little interest in companionship with either women or men – even in the friendly sense.

And there isn't a soul alive who has yet to hear Granger's story. Brilliant she may be, and increasingly eye-catching as of late, she's certainly not known for her social skills or appearances. And after the disaster with Potter and Weasley (and this reporter will now take a moment to ask if anyone knows exactly _what_ happened there), she has befriended a very small amount of people – two of which being Ron Weasley's older brothers, Fred and George Weasley.

This being said, it is a wonder that Granger and Wood ever managed to meet up. Aside from their penchants for disregarding and ignoring the media, the two appear to have very little in common, except perhaps their isolation from society.

_The article rambled on for several more paragraphs, each growing more and more repetitious and absurd. Hermione was seething by the time that she'd finished reading over it, and Oliver merely appeared to be amused._

"_I don't understand what you find so funny," she admitted, attempting to relax her jaw from its tense position._

"_They're making it up as they go along, and hoping to snag a few readers," Oliver shrugged. "It isn't true, and they've got nothing to prove it. It's just a theory – and a very poorly supported one at that." He reached over and clasped her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. "I must admit, I don't think I've seen an article to be so insulting in quite a while, but what do I care? They're of very little importance to me."_

_Hermione shrugged, trying to agree with him, but finding it a bit difficult. "Doesn't it bother you at all that they're attempting to discredit our relationship?" She asked quietly, avoiding eye contact._

"_No," he said bluntly. "I like what we have. I don't mind if they think we're being shallow and huddling together to satisfy our needs for human company. They can think what they want. The only opinion that I care about is yours, and I would assume that you don't think of our relationship that way."_

"_Of course I don't," Hermione said quickly. "I just feel as if they're invading any privacy that I might have had, and insulting me in the process."_

"_Well, lioness, they at least captured your good side in the photo. Isn't that a lovely picture?" Oliver quipped, and chuckled as she tried to hold back a smile. "Go on, love. Smile. Just a tiny one. It won't hurt you, I promise."_

_The picture, Hermione admitted, was a rather tasteful one of the two of them. Every now and then, Oliver would let go of her hand and wrap it around her shoulders, leaning down to peck her lips lightly. She remembered that he'd claimed to be 'tasting' her strawberry ice cream, at the time. It was a rather sweet moment._

"_We can frame it if you like," Oliver said amusedly, breaking her focus away from the paper._

_She scowled at him jokingly. "They may have captured my good side, but the same can't be said for you, can it?"_

"_Don't be sassy, love."_

She wasn't sure exactly how he'd managed it, but he'd turned a potentially disastrous day into one that she now remembered as being fun and humorous. She'd never experienced that before, particularly not when the press was involved.

Oliver might have been her complete opposite, but so far he'd managed to catch her where she fell short and remind her that she was merely human, while keeping her spirits up. It felt odd to be so close with him so quickly; she'd never been one to trust easily, especially not after the debacle of the Golden Trio's split.

They had only been officially dating for a month or so, but Oliver seemed to understand her, and she appreciated that. She also appreciated that he'd agreed that relationships shouldn't be rushed. It had been a month after their first night together that he had asked her to date him officially. Hermione recalled the moment they became a 'couple' with easy fondness.

_She woke up in Oliver's arms again, only this time they were fully clothed. It had been a silent agreement that petting was allowed, but for a few weeks at least, they would refrain from having sex until they knew one another on a more intimate level. The arrangement had been satisfactory to both of them, and they were mutually content to absorb one another's company._

_She tucked her head into the crook of his neck and inhaled slowly. Oliver had an airy scent to him that Hermione found comfort in, and she immensely enjoyed these quiet moments in the mornings – that had been occurring more and more frequently as of late – while he slept and she simply marveled at his presence in her life._

_After glancing up at the clock and sighing, she pressed her lips lightly to his morning stubble and whispered to him that it was time to wake up. _

"_Says who?" The Scot mumbled back, hand rubbing up and down her back lightly as he struggled to stay awake. "It's Saturday."_

"_Yes," Hermione agreed with a small smile. "But it's nearly noon on Saturday. I'm going to shower; I'll wake you up again when I'm out, alright?"_

"_No," he murmured disagreeably, tightening his arms around her. "Stay in bed with me, 'Mione."_

_She bit her lip lightly. She'd never really been asked to stay in bed with a man before; she had always been under her own reign in that regard. It was nice to be asked, and it made Hermione a bit reluctant to move, even though she knew that they were wasting the day away by staying buried beneath the duvet. But really, were they wasting the day if they were enjoying themselves just where they were? She didn't need to be shagging him to enjoy spending time with him._

"_Okay," she decided softly, snuggling closer to his chest._

"_Couldn't resist me, could you?" He opened his eyes long enough to wink at her and press a small kiss at the top of her head._

"_I think it was the accent that did it," Hermione replied playfully, and felt a small rush of contentment as his chest rumbled with his laughter._

"_I like this," Oliver said quietly, after a long moment of comfortable, sleepy silence. "Being with you, I mean."_

"_I like it too," she agreed. "It's peaceful, but exciting. And it's comfortable, even though it's new."_

"_Hard to explain it, isn't it?" He chuckled lightly. "I think we've got something special, Granger, and I don't want to give it up. I'm not sure exactly how to transition this into the conversation, but I feel it's important for me to tell you that I'm all in on this. I want us to be exclusive. I want you to be my girlfriend, and only mine. What do you think about that?"_

"_I think that sounds perfect," she whispered quietly._

It hadn't _all_ been quite that perfect, but it had never been awful. Even during their first fight they had managed to keep it relatively short, despite the emotions that ran free throughout it.

_She'd spent the day helping Fred and George at their shop, as she had yet to decide on a career choice and needed something to fill her days with. It had been particularly busy, and so she had been rather harried throughout the day, bustling about and assisting as many customers as possible._

_She came home and started a bath running, prepared to relax after a long day. She picked a book – one that she had already read several times, and knew that she enjoyed – and rested it against the edge of the bathtub as she stripped herself of clothing and slowly slipped into the scalding water._

_She'd read for fifteen minutes or so before she heard a knock at her door. Groaning, she hurriedly covered herself with a robe and answered the door, sopping hair and all. Oliver stood outside, his Quidditch robes still slipped over his shoulders. He looked rather exhausted._

"_I've interrupted your bath," he said quietly. "Sorry."_

"_No. I mean, yes, you have, but it's alright," she replied smiling softly, truly pleased that he stopped by. "Just give me a minute to change and I'll be right back."_

"_That's alright," he shook his head. "I only need a minute. I just wanted to ask what you'd think if Harry, Ron, and I went out for drinks," he said cautiously. She'd recently told him about what had happened between the three of them, and although she hadn't expressly mentioned how hurt she'd been by it, he'd been able to see it in her eyes as she spoke of them._

"_Oh," Hermione muttered. "You should go," she tried smiling, but Oliver saw through it._

"_Hermione, I – "_

"_No," she shook her head, "really. You should go. Just because I haven't spoken to them in ages doesn't mean that nobody else should."_

_She'd thought that she was doing a good thing, by not prohibiting him from doing something that he wanted to do. Instead, she was confused by the frustrated crease of his brow and the flat set of his mouth. _

"_Fine," he shrugged, turning away from her._

"_Why are you upset?" She asked quietly._

"_I'm not," he said stubbornly._

_Hermione eyed him up and down, taking in his stiff, broad shoulders and the way his jaw was gritted tightly together. She'd never seen him quite like this before, having never seen him angry, really. "Oliver," she chided lightly, "you're clearly displeased over something, and I can only assume that it's something I said."_

"_No, Hermione, it's what you didn't say."_

"_Pardon?"_

"_You've told me about Harry and Ron. You've told me about what happened, which means that it's obviously affecting you, but you won't talk to me about _how_ it affected you, or what you feel about it. And I came here tonight to give you the perfect opportunity to share with me, and you elect not to. I just wonder if there's a reason you aren't telling me," he said, frustrated._

"_You could've asked," Hermione reminded him quietly. "I told you I have emotional baggage, Oliver. I told you because I thought it might be an obstacle to overcome, and this is precisely what I meant. I'm not accustomed to sharing my feelings; I haven't done it in a very long time, alright?"_

"_Then share with me," he said. "I'm here, and I want to listen. I don't _want_ to go out with Potter and Weasley; they invited me and I battled myself for a long time to keep from punching them for what they did to you."_

"_It's not that easy, Oliver," Hermione shook her head, growing agitated. _

"_Why not?" He asked, his brogue coming off stronger and his volume increasing as he grew angrier._

"_Because I don't _know_ how it's affected me!" Hermione threw her arms up restlessly. "I know it hurts, and I know it's made me pull into a shell of sorts, but I don't know why. I don't know, Oliver! I hate not knowing, but I don't. I don't know what I'm doing in my life without them, and they're perfectly content as things are. They seem as if they're not suffering at all from the loss, and that stings, but how's it affecting me? I don't know! It shouldn't be affecting me. They're not my friends any longer. We don't speak. Nothing they do or say should rightfully affect me, but it _does_, and I can't do anything about it."_

_Oliver watched her, tears crashing down her cheeks unbeknownst to her, cheeks flushed from her anger and grief, hair dripping on the carpet as she shouted at him, so distressed that she hadn't realized she was yelling not only to him, but anyone on the street who cared to listen. He felt guilty for pressuring this out of her when it clearly was one of the few topics that could truly make her this upset._

"_I'm sorry," he murmured, reaching out for her hand slowly. "I shouldn't have pried. I didn't realize – but I should have," he cut himself off, huffing at himself for being so impatient._

_She didn't say anything for a minute, and then pushed the door open a little wider. "I was going to make some pasta, if you wanted to stay," she said quietly, swiping at the tears on her face. "I'd like to finish my bath, too, if that's alright."_

"_That's fine," he said softly. _

"_Alright then," she said, admitting him into the house._

"_Hermione?" He said as she turned back toward the bathroom. "Thank you."_

_The message was implied. He was pleased that she shared with him, but sorry that it had made her cry. She nodded in response. She wouldn't say that it was alright, because she didn't really like being pushed into sharing information when she didn't want to, but she probably wouldn't have said anything about it again if he hadn't brought it up, so she couldn't be tremendously displeased with him._

_She finished her bath slowly, not at all rushed by his presence, as she knew he'd probably seated himself on the couch and was watching television – something that she had recently introduced him to. When she stepped out, she cast a charm on her hair to dry it, and dressed in a pair of sleep pants and one of Oliver's shirts that she'd stolen after he shed it to go to sleep._

_Hermione found him on the couch, as she predicted she would, and he silently beckoned her to sit next to him. She went willingly, tired of fighting, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "I shouldn't have pushed you that way."_

"_Ollie, please," she whispered, using the affectionate nickname that she'd learned from Fred and George. The difference was that Hermione used the nickname as an endearment, and Fred and George used it to mock him. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just want to lie down with you. It's been a long day."_

"_Alright," he mumbled against her silky brown curls, tightening his arms around her for a brief moment. "That sounds nice."_

_They watched the figures on the telly for a while, comfortably leaning against one another. "I might not make pasta," Hermione admitted. "I can order pizza in, if you want."_

_Oliver chuckled, "That's just fine, love."_

_Exhausted with him as she might have been a few moments ago, she felt warmth for him flood her as the final word left his mouth. They didn't talk much that night, but they cuddled an awful lot and kissed each other randomly to make sure that the other knew they weren't terribly upset. _


	3. Kiss in the Crowd

**Chapter Three:  
**_Kiss in the Crowd_

"Have we thanked you for bringing us these tickets?" Angelina asked excitedly, hurrying forward so that she could walk backward while she spoke to Hermione. "Because we really, _really_ appreciate it!"

Her friend nodded a bit more serenely, and sent Hermione a tiny smile. "She doesn't get out much," Katie excused Angelina with a wink, which the dark-haired girl scowled at.

"Oh, don't mind her," Angelina rolled her eyes. "She's just as excited as I am."

"Angie, love, I don't know if it's possible to be as excited as you are," George chuckled and grabbed her hand so that she stopped harassing Hermione.

A little bit uncomfortable, Hermione smiled. "It wasn't really my doing; Oliver managed them for you. I'm sure he's looking forward to seeing you after the game, as well, so don't head off anywhere."

"'Course not!" Katie scoffed. "We haven't seen Oliver in years! We absolutely want to see him!"

"Hermione," Fred started seriously, tugging at the back of her jumper until she frowned at him and turned backward. He exchanged a nervous glance with his twin, and they both nodded resolutely, slightly concerning her.

"Could the two of you excuse us, just for a moment?" Fred asked politely, particularly conveying a pleading look to Katie.

"We just need a moment to speak to Hermione," George explained, offering a small smile to Angelina, who nodded and squeezed his hand lightly, tugging her best friend away from their boyfriends and newly-reacquainted former housemate.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked quietly.

"We've heard tiny rumors that my brother and his notorious best friend might be attending the game today," George frowned.

"We thought it right to warn you properly, before we arrive," Fred murmured, green eyes roaming over her face as her mocha-shaded eyes darkened and her teeth worried her lip almost instantly.

"We'll be there the entire time, of course," George vowed.

"But we wanted to make sure you'd be okay if they really showed," Fred frowned.

Hermione shrugged uneasily, and nodded. "I'll survive. I told Oliver I'd go to his game, and I plan to. They're not going to stop me. They're not even going to say anything to me, so I don't see why it should make a difference."

"Hermione – " Both twins began at once, but she shook her head.

"Please?" She beseeched. "I want to enjoy today with my two best friends. Can you let me do that?"

"Sure," they agreed gently, George leaning forward to wrap his arms around her waist in a tight hug, while Fred soothed a hand over her hair silently.

"We should get going," Hermione said, voice muffled against Fred's collar as she clutched his back tightly.

"I think we can spare another moment or two," Fred winked.

"After all, Ollie's had his fair share of you; today is our turn," George joked.

"We're relieving him of you, you see," Fred prattled.

"Took you off his hands," George nodded.

"Because you're just such a _handful_, love," Fred shook his head admonishingly.

"You really ought to learn to behave," George sighed dramatically, his breath whispering across her cheek.

Hermione laughed softly, squeezing George closely for a minute, then releasing him. "What would I do without the two of you?"

"Probably perish," Fred said gravely.

"Slowly, I'm sure," George agreed.

"I'm glad to hear that you have so much confidence in my abilities of survival," Hermione rolled her eyes, attempting to ignore the possibility of Harry and Ron's company at the game. Although it would not kill her, it would surely hurt to see them for the first time since the battle – and it would surely be awkward, at the very least.

"You're just not one for survival instincts, 'Mione," Fred informed.

"Natural selection didn't favor you much," George pressed.

"But that's why we're here, love."

"To protect you from harm!"

"And you're both so very good at it," she said adoringly, and although it was merely a joke, a part of her truly meant it. She would have persevered on her own, she was sure, but she wouldn't have managed quite as well without Fred and George to help her. She hadn't been phenomenal even _with_ their friendship, but without it she would've fallen into a dark state of depression and secluded herself from the world. That wasn't who she wanted to be, and she would forever be grateful to Fred and George for preventing her transformation into that.

"We try," the twins chimed as they joined their girlfriends and each wrapped an arm around their respective women.

Hermione was rather quiet during the rest of the walk to the Quidditch stadium. She'd been rather excited for the game today, odd as that sounded. She'd been looking forward to cheering Oliver on and messing around with Fred and George, having a butterbeer or two in the stands. Now she was sure she would be too anxious to properly enjoy the night, and that upset her.

She decided to make a strong attempt to take pleasure in the day, nevertheless. But it was difficult when she was constantly worrying over what she would do when – or _if_, she reminded herself – Harry and Ron showed up at the game. She'd been pleased before that Oliver was of such great importance to heed only the best tickets in the Top Box, but now she wasn't so sure it was a good thing, because surely if Harry and Ron made an appearance, they'd also be seated in the same place.

Ron, at least, would not make the grievous mistake of giving the appearance that he had less money than he really did. Hermione wanted to scoff; Ron's apparent need to have all eyes on him would be his downfall, one day. It had already indirectly been the downfall of their friendship, but that didn't seem to affect him, or Harry, as much as it did her.

"Stop thinking so hard," Fred chided.

"Your brain might combust, Granger," George added.

"Leave her alone," Katie said to both of them.

"Listen to your girlfriend, Fred," Hermione agreed lightly. "She's very wise."

"It's not fair of you to gang up on me like that," Fred pouted.

"Because you and George _never_ do that to your friends," Hermione said sarcastically, approaching the crowd lined up at one of the many ticket stations. After waiting a solid hour, they finally stood at the front of the line. Hermione presented the man with the glimmering blue tickets that she had held on to in order to prevent Fred and George from losing theirs in the mess that they called a home.

"By Merlin!" Their ticket man exclaimed. "We wondered if you'd ever come to watch Wood play, but we never imagined we'd see you face to face!"

Hermione shifted edgily and scratched the side of her cheek lightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, I suppose."

"And you as well, Madam Granger!" The man cried excitedly.

"Well, of course it's a pleasure to meet her!" Fred grinned at her ill-at-ease stature.

"She's only the brightest – "

"Most alluring – "

"Caringest – "

"Most caring," Hermione corrected, a flush fanning out over her cheeks as she looked anywhere but at the scene that the twins were causing, as several more people began to look in their direction.

"War hero ever to have walked the face of this Earth," Fred finished.

"You'd do quite well to remember that all others are beneath her," George declared.

"I can hurt them for you, if you want," Angelina leaned over to whisper sincerely, scowling at her boyfriend and lover.

"Just get me out of here," Hermione pleaded, trying to lighten the situation but finding that she unfortunately put more meaning behind the words than she'd intended.

"Excuse me," Katie said loudly, breaking the ticket-taker's focus from the twins. "I'd like to get our seats now, Fred. If you're quite finished being obnoxious and embarrassing, could we go sit down?"

There was a grateful, almost praising look traded from Hermione to Katie, and the older woman winked at her before snatching the ticket stubs from the wide-eyed man at the station and pushing Fred forward with slightly unnecessary force as she hissed at him under her breath for being a prat and making Hermione uncomfortable.

For her part, Hermione was beginning to remember why it was, exactly, that she refrained from making social appearances. Her public role had been exaggerated and deformed to the point where the public was entirely unsure of all that she had done, only certain that she had, at one point, assisted Harry in his endeavors and had saved the lives of both he and Ron a countless number of times.

Shaking off those thoughts, as they usually led to long bouts of depression, Hermione reminded herself of her promise to try and enjoy the day, and so she focused instead on her friends.

They were currently walking toward the newly-installed lift that would carry them to the Top Box. Hermione was truly surprised that it had taken them so long to put lifts in the Quidditch stadiums, as so many fans had grumbled and moaned over the excessive amount of stairs that prevented them from watching the game.

"I haven't seen Ollie play Quidditch since Hogwarts," Fred bemoaned.

"He was damn good, even then," George acknowledged.

"Suppose he's gotten better?" Angelina asked, hopping into the elevator.

The girl's enthusiasm made Hermione laugh, and filled her with a gentle affection for Angelina. Although she was a good couple years older than Hermione, she acted like a child in an endearing sort of way that made spending time with her quite enjoyable. She supposed that's why she got on with George so well. As well as he and Fred understood one another, they had small differences that amounted to a lot and sometimes grew too much to handle. When they were finding it difficult to get on well, Angelina was sure to understand George when Fred simply could not.

And Katie's tranquil, knowing nature fitted well with Fred; although he was most often just as immature as his brother, he was a bit more known for his seriousness when the proper situation called for it. Katie would be quite capable of soothing Fred and offering a gentle perspective when he required it. Hermione was confident that Katie was able to deal with both sides of Fred with great aptitude, and the thought pleased her. She desperately wanted her boys to be happy.

"I'm not trying to get yelled at," George interrupted warily, "but you're awfully quiet, 'Mione."

"Everything alright?" Fred raised a brow inquisitively, implying that he was concerned.

Hermione nodded distractedly, then took her assigned seat in between Katie and George. "Everything's fine," she assured, sending a small but sincere smile. She wasn't lying; right now, everything was fine. She just wasn't sure that it would be if her former best mates decided to put on a show.

"Who are we playing against?" Hermione asked, realizing suddenly that she hadn't the slightest idea.

Her four friends stared at her incredulously and simultaneously shouted, "The Falmouth Falcons!"

Hermione frowned, recalling a small bit of information from one of her conversations with Harry and Ron ages ago. They weren't the kindest of players, if she remembered correctly. In fact, for whatever reason, their motto had stuck into her head and it was now echoing dauntingly in her head: _"Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads."_

Feeling the need to affirm her suspicions, while greatly hoping that she was wrong, she asked, "They're not a very kind team, are they?"

"No," George shook his head. "They play downright dirty!"

"It makes for a great game!" Fred supported.

Hermione was now certain that it would make for an awful game for her. She felt Katie reach up and squeeze her forearm momentarily, conveying her understanding of her new friend's worries. "He'll be fine," Katie assured. "Oliver's been playing Quidditch for years; he knows what he's doing."

Hermione nodded skeptically and accepted Katie's encouragement as well as she could, but she found herself feeling quite queasy at the thought of Oliver getting hurt. Quidditch and Hermione had never really gotten on very well. She'd always felt nervous for Harry and Ron when they played, or anyone, really, as she thought of the force with which the bludgers moved and were hurled around, and how great of a distance the players would fall if knocked just an inch too far. But now, today, she felt like she might truly be sick – and Oliver hadn't even been on the pitch, yet.

"Popcorn!" Fred and George shouted, breaking her away from her thoughts and leaping up to bother the man selling the snack foods, who looked almost frightened by their dramatic jump forward and their enthusiastic natures.

"Want some?" Fred asked calmly, after he'd seated himself back down, leaning over his girlfriend to offer Hermione some of the contents of the bag.

"It's good for you," George said, sounding convinced.

"No it isn't," Hermione argued.

"Sure it is," Fred frowned. "It's made from corn."

"_Normal_ popcorn is _maybe_ good for you, but _this_ popcorn has been put in so many oils and butters and has been salted up so much that it hardly _resembles_ popcorn, and I absolutely refuse to eat it," Hermione informed them with a saucy shake of her head.

George wrinkled his nose. "That's disturbing. You _almost_ make me not want to eat it," he announced.

"Blasphemy!" Fred cried. "George, my brother, what adulterous words you speak!"

Looking chastised, George took a handful of the popcorn and shoveled into his mouth, eliciting a strong noise of disgust from Angelina. George swallowed the mouthful as quickly as possible, and said, "Not to worry, Fred. Not even Granger's incredibly nauseating rationale can turn me off of corn of the popped nature."

Fred collapsed back in his seat, wiping a hand over his forehead in mock-relief while Katie rolled her eyes at him, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder.

Several minutes later, Hermione didn't have to fake the smile that spread over her face as Oliver's team emerged from the locker room to the commentary of the broadcaster who announced each of their names, and the blaring roars of the crowd as each of the team members were called upon. Oliver led the team around the pitch twice, and on his third lap he began slowing down, much to the apparent confusion of his teammates. He, however, waved them downward, and when they had taken their proper positions, they looked up to their captain, who was swooping toward the Top Box.

Perplexed, Hermione furrowed her brow and asked George what he was doing.

"Haven't a clue," George said, puzzled. "They don't normally do that."

She looked back to the pitch and frowned as Oliver performed a flip in the air and suddenly ended up not a foot in front of her face. There was a large series of flashing cameras and another round of applause from the crowd.

"What are you _doing_?" Hermione realized that he was stopping to speak with her, as he'd shown no signs of moving, and felt heat instantly race up her entire body.

"I came to collect my good-luck kiss," Oliver grinned. "It's a big game today, lioness, and I want to make sure that I win it."

"You're joking," Hermione decided confidently, face flaming as George nudged her and the crowd around her shouted, reaching out to make an attempt to touch the famed keeper.

"I'm really not," Oliver responded, holding his hand out to her.

"Do you have any idea how many cameras there are right now?" Hermione asked him, her cheeks pink and her eyes never straying from his in order to avoid the crowd and their screams of excitement, and the press' glittering camera lights.

"Nope," he declared. "Don't particularly care, either, to be honest. Are you going to send me off to my game feeling rejected and unwanted, or are you going to give me a kiss and wish me luck?"

Hermione covered her face in embarrassment, then reached out with one hand to take his. He pulled her forward and buried one hand in her hair, pressing the other between her shoulder blades, pulling her against him tightly while he hovered on his broom in mid-air. His lips brushed against hers when he spoke, and his breath rushed over her already hot face. "I'm glad you came," he said softly.

She made a small noise of disbelief. "I can't believe you're doing this to me, Oliver Wood."

He grinned and murmured, "I bet I'll win the game now."

"You would've won it with or without me here," Hermione informed him, throwing her full support behind him, trying to ignore the new shouts of 'Give him a kiss!' echoing through the crowd.

"Mm," he hummed softly, not disagreeing or agreeing. "Now wish me luck."

"Good luck," she whispered against his mouth.

"And top it with a kiss," he instructed softly.

Hermione sighed once with resignation, feeling her legs tremble beneath her out of nervousness from all of the people watching them and fierce affection for the man whose arms she was currently enwrapped in. Nevertheless, she leaned forward to cover the small space that separated his mouth from hers, bracing herself by gripping his biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath her fingers.

Her lips covered his, intending to touch them only briefly, but his hand at her head held her mouth against his, his hands stroking her silky curls as his teeth nipped at her lip. She sighed against his mouth, and his tongue deftly dipped between her lips, tangling with hers and exploring the caverns of her mouth. He broke away quickly as one of his teammates slapped him on the back with a boisterous laugh and informed him that the game was about to start.

"Cheer for me?" Oliver asked, tugging her more tightly against him.

"Absolutely," she affirmed, burying her head in his neck, knowing that the moment she let go of him, she would have to face the rest of the crowd.

His lips nibbled at a small spot on her neck, and Hermione gasped in response. Before she could admonish him for it, he pulled away and winked at her, performing a spin as he flew toward his team, who clapped him on the back. His coach shook his head at him, unable to keep a broad grin off his face.

"I think I just fell in love with Oliver Wood," George laughed uproariously, leaning forward to take Hermione's hips and pull them backward so that she fell into her chair. As embarrassed as she was, Hermione was partially thankful, because she was sure that her legs were so wobbly that they would not move on their own.

"You look redder than Mum gets when she's angry!" Fred's laughter matched his twin's.

Hermione didn't need a mirror to feel how red her face was growing, or how watery her eyes looked as the crowd around her excitedly shouted questions and comments at her about Oliver.

"I might kill him," she said fiercely, finally finding herself able to articulate words.

"I don't think any woman alive would deny you the right to," Katie laughed agreeably.

"Aw, c'mon," Angelina leaned forward. "Cut him a bit of slack, at least. That's certainly not a moment that you'll ever forget, and it'll be a fun story to tell when you're old and gray."

"I don't know if I'm more likely to remember kissing him or being so nervous that I couldn't walk two steps backward to get to my seat," Hermione mumbled to herself, though reluctantly admitting that it was a very, very sweet way to declare his affections for her, if not more than a little nerve-inducing.

"_And after that charming display of love for his girlfriend, Oliver Wood takes place at the goalposts to begin the game!" _The commentator shouted loudly, echoing throughout the stands as the crowd cheered their opposing teams onward.

_Love?_ Hermione thought. She'd heard very little of that announcement after they had used the word 'love.' Was that what it had been? She wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of falling in love with Oliver, but was it too soon? She supposed it wasn't. Did she love him? Did he even love her, or was that just the term that the announcer had first thought of?

She shook her head; whether or not she and Oliver were in love was irrelevant right now. She'd come to support him while he played, and even if he'd done a spectacular job of making her uncomfortable in the crowd, her fondness for him far outweighed the uneasy sensation. She wanted to cheer for him now; she'd worry about love later.

"_The snitch has been released! Let the game commence!"_


	4. Bludgers Out

**Chapter Four:  
**_Bludgers Out_

It took Hermione a solid half hour to stifle her gasps with each barrel-roll, twist, and flip that Oliver performed. George had chuckled at her and slung his arm over her shoulders, but soon released her as he jumped up in tandem with the rest of the crowd as Norton Pikely – a chaser on Oliver's team – performed a flawless play, complete with a charge on the opposing team, and scored ten points.

"_TEN POINTS TO PUDDLEMORE, AND POSSESSION GOES TO TUCKETT!"_ The commentator shouted over the cheers and boos of the crowd.

Hermione's eyes remained steadfastly on Oliver; still as he was, playing keeper, the beaters often made attempts to hit him with the bludgers as swiftly and roughly as possible, and the efforts did not escape Hermione's notice. If Oliver were eliminated, none of the players on his team could act in his stead, and would be forced to either keep the quaffle away from their end of the pitch, or watch with outrage as the Falcons scored.

The logic behind it did not escape Hermione's notice either, but that did nothing for her nerves and tension.

Her hands were clenched tightly to the metal railing in front of her – her knuckles pale and cold with their loss of circulation – when she felt George straighten up beside her. She tore her intense gaze from Oliver's somewhat battered form to suss out the cause, and although she'd been warned and had anticipated the possibility, she felt her heartbeat stutter briefly when she turned to find Harry and Ron taking their seats in the row behind them.

Harry nodded at her after a small moment of nothing, grimacing lightly as if attempting a smile that couldn't turn out quite right due to a complete lack of sincerity. Ron's upper lip curled upward in disgust for a harried second, then disappeared entirely as he shouted something at one of the players.

Katie mumbled something under her breath about "gits who know nothing about what's good for them," eliciting a small, if slightly forced, smile from Hermione's lips. George had not relaxed his posture, but Hermione averted her eyes back to the game with some difficulty. Her concerns over Harry and Ron's presence were overridden by her more pressing concern for Oliver's wellbeing. Although he'd handled himself well over the course of the season, Hermione couldn't help but feel as though he were going to injure himself during this match.

Despite her focus on Puddlemore's keeper, she could still feel Fred and George keeping a silent conversation over her head. She could all but imagine Fred hissing at George to leave things alone, and George strongly protesting that their younger brother was being a prat of the highest rank, and needed to be taken down a notch or two.

She wished she hadn't elicited such strain from within their family, but after she'd befriended the twins and had shared her story, they had immediately taken to her side. Ron's story was hardly believable, and Harry merely murmured and shrugged – presumably in agreement with his closest mate, although no one had truly been able to discern what he'd mumbled.

"I'm getting some popcorn," Ron announced from behind them, Hermione doing her best to ignore them, but finding herself struggling to do so after such a long time of adhering to their every word.

"I'll go with you," George jumped up eagerly, glaring in his younger sibling's direction.

Ron sighed and looked heavenward, as if asking for relief from the burden his brother presented, before heading toward the edge of the box and, consequently, the lift. Harry followed, brows drawn together to complete a look of set determination in defense of his friend.

Hermione's fingers clutched more tightly to the rail, if it were possible, clinging to some source of grounding as her head spun at the prospects of what the confrontation would come to. She weakly turned her head in Fred's direction, and he sidled a few seats over until he sat beside her, Katie respectfully keeping her head inclined to view the game.

"He's being rash," Fred admitted quietly, "but it's only in your defense."

She didn't argue with him, as she already knew that. Instead, she said quietly, "I don't want to be the cause of a family disagreement."

Fred offered a small grin, "Too late."

"Fred," Hermione frowned disapprovingly.

He sighed, his grin fading as he nodded his head. "I'll chase after him, then. But don't blame me if he's back with a battered ego. You know how George gets."

"Watch it, Weasley," Angelina warned.

Fred rolled his eyes, his vague sense of humor slowly diminishing as he stood, moving to collect his brother and prevent whatever shouting match or fist-fight was bound to break out between the two disagreeing parties.

It was just as he was leaving that Hermione released a strangled sound from the recesses of her throat, then a choked sob before she barreled past him, shoving him aside and racing down the stairs, apparently deciding that the lift moved far too slowly for her purposes.

Hermione felt the ground beneath her slipping away, although she was far more prone to believe that it was being pulled from her, and not that she was sprinting from it. Her pulse thudded discontentedly and rapidly in her chest and echoed through the tips of her toes and fingertips, spreading its panic throughout her body by way of her veins and arteries.

She saw colors – hundreds and thousands of them racing around her as her world shifted at an abnormally quick pace around her. She was oblivious to all but the colors, and the thought of Oliver – _her_ Oliver – being thrust from his broom by a heavy bludger to the stomach, then being followed by that very same bludger and stricken at his shoulder blades.

She could hardly say how she ended up on the pitch, nor could she explain the utter contempt she felt as she realized that she had arrived before the Pitch-Healer had. She couldn't recall the spells she used to sustain him, nor could she have repeated the endearments she'd whispered in his ear, despite his unconscious state. And she certainly held no memory of being transported to St. Mungo's along with Oliver Wood's cataleptic body.

Hermione had immediately been ushered into a private room while a Healer swiftly attended to his most pressing injuries, of which he curiously found there to be only a few. He then called in a Mediwitch to aid him as he ran several tests, and nicely, albeit urgently, asked her to take down the words that he muttered in secret tones.

She had been informed that, as she was neither bound to Oliver by legal means nor by blood, they could tell her very little, but she needed no Healer's word to notify her that Oliver was not well; his pale, bruised face and bloodied body sufficed quite well enough.

Abruptly, Hermione felt a typhoon come upon her, leaving panic, anger, and an awful wave of shakiness and labored breathing in its wake. The Healer – Kildroy, he called himself – hastily ordered the Mediwitch to pour her a glass of water and calm her down, but Hermione waved the kindly witch back toward Oliver, promptly dismissing herself from the room and slinking down the wall outside of Oliver's ward.

Everything was a blinding shade of white. Hermione threw her head between her knees, attempting to block out the reflections of the light that reflected off of the colorless walls, as heartbroken, frantic sobs crushed her chest as they fell forth. Her hands tangled in her hair, holding the nape of her neck as she tried to level herself out. She reminded herself that Oliver had been hurt before, and he'd been perfectly alright; she reminded herself that Harry and Ron had been in similar situations, and they'd survived just fine; she reminded herself that there were masses of talented healers collected in this hospital, and that it was the best in Europe for good reason.

And although those thoughts helped regulate her breathing, they did not crush the anxiety and utter fright she felt on behalf of Oliver's frail health.

Ten minutes had gone before Hermione pulled herself together enough to reenter Oliver's ward, and found Healer Kildroy and his Mediwitch assistant finishing up their diagnoses and rubbing various balms and salves into Oliver's bluish-blackish skin.

She hugged her arms around her midsection tightly, and watched with weary, worried eyes as the trained professionals performed their given tasks. When they finished, she expended her last remnants of energy on propelling herself to the chair aside of Oliver's bed. "He'll be alright," she looked to them pleadingly, forming the should-be statement into an unintentional question.

"He'll be a few days to come to, I believe," Healer Kildroy nodded, shifting his square frames on his nose slightly and looking uncomfortable with her ill-composed form. "But I see no reason why he shouldn't recover in his due time. We'll keep him well looked after, of course," he rushed to say.

Hermione nodded silently, taking Oliver's calloused hand into her own. "Thank you," she murmured quietly, not sparing another glance his way.

Absently, she reached up and brushed a strand of sandy brown hair from Oliver's forehead, her fingers brushing lightly over unnaturally cool, pallid flesh. She kept her hand tucked in his hair and scraped her nails across his scalp lightly, closing her eyes as tears threatened to overcome her once more.

"See how much luck my kisses are?" She murmured to him, chuckling lightly to herself and taking her fingers from his hair to sweep her tears away, replacing her small, soft hand at his jaw, grazing some light stubble until her fingers cupped his chin carefully, as if afraid she might injure him further. Any other time, the action would have prompted Oliver to lean into her touch similarly to the way that Bowie did, when he wasn't feeling overly rambunctious and destroying her house with his excess vigor. But Oliver remained still, and Hermione steadied her reaction to the realization with a deep breath.

_He'll be fine, _she chanted to herself, not nearly as convincingly as she might have hoped. But the Healer had said the same, and had assured her of their frequent visits, and so she slept in the chair beside his bed, or paced the length of the floorboards beneath her feet to relieve herself of her troubles, despite that the actions did very little for her fretting, and in fact were often seen to encourage minor panic attacks.

It took three days for Fred and George to haul her from the hospital and back to her home for a shower.

"Honestly?" Fred began, a twisted expression marring his face. "You're beginning to smell, Granger."

"And not of flowers and sunshine," George contributed, although both twins were entirely aware that they were exaggerating the situation greatly, because they were concerned for Hermione and her health, and merely wished her to shower and take a few moments for herself.

"Sunshine doesn't have a smell," she rebuked inarguably, but it lost much of its conviction among her feeble tones.

"Well if it did," George pressed, "it would smell nice."

"And you wouldn't smell like it," Fred concluded needlessly.

"Just a tiny splash in the tub, Granger," George coerced.

Hermione sighed, hardly able to deny that she needed a quick rinse, and stood stiffly, arching backward to stretch the muscles in her back, and lifting her arms above her head to do the same. "A quick one," she conceded.

She seemed more than slightly unwilling to leave him, but gave in and walked with them down the white, sterile corridors of St. Mungo's. When they'd stepped back into the lobby, they Apparated silently to her home. Bowie had been fed and played with in her absence, as she'd asked Fred and George to pop in and give him a scratch or two while she'd been gone, but he nevertheless cast a hurt glance her way as she padded quietly to her rooms and the twins collapsed effortlessly on her couch.

"Bowie, love, I haven't forgotten you," she swore, bending down to pick the small, cozy, black kitten up and cuddled him against her chest. He purred contentedly, but scowled at her as if the soft noises he made were made against his volition.

"Ollie was hurt, Bow," she whispered softly against his fur. "He was hurt rather badly, and he hasn't woken yet. I know you don't like to share," she admitted, "and I know he's been encroaching on what's yours, but even you have to admit he's been trying to gain your approval. I know you're a bit stubborn in your staunchness on most occasions, so I'll ask you nicely to forgive me and hope that you'll accept my apology," she said sincerely, appealing to his faithful, pardoning nature.

As expected, her tiny kitten rolled his furred head beneath her chin, as if pressing a hug against her in the only way he knew how, and released a smooth mrring noise that only a kitten could be capable of, as if asking what had happened to her beau.

"He's been knocked around pretty roughly," she inhaled a deep breath, stalling tears that had repeatedly knocked against her eyelids and she closed the door on them roughly. "He was playing Quidditch, and then he was on the ground. He fell from his broom after he was hit, and – though the bludgers hit him hard – the landing was… it was quite unpleasant, Bowie."

And that was an understatement.

Fact was, Oliver was lucky to have survived that fall, despite the cushioning charms that surrounded the floor of the pitch. They were always applied as a precaution, but the velocity gained through a fall from that height was incredibly difficult to ward against, and his speed itself had gained him at minimum a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder.

"I'm supposed to be showering," Hermione disclosed, giving her cat one last scratch behind the ear and lowering him to her bed. "And I should be getting back to Oliver soon. Don't be upset with me, Bow. I promise I'll be home after he wakes."

The small chat with her familiar had disheartened her more than it had lifted her spirits, and her shower did nothing for her, either. If she'd had hopes of it clearing her mind or easing the pain in her joints, they had quickly been dashed. She slipped from the steaming water as quickly as she had been able and wrapped herself in a fluffy, peach-colored towel before changing into an old pair of sweats and a hoodie sporting the mascot for the Merlin Institute – a blue and green dragon trapped inside the magical landmark of Stonehenge, smoke huffing almost humorously from the dragon's nostrils in his aggravation.

She opted for comfortable, as the chairs in Oliver's room were anything but, not that she paid very close attention to that detail, as it would not stop her from staying with him.

"That's got to be a record," Fred announced as she stepped from her room wearily.

"Honestly, it has," George enforced. "You're intelligent, right Granger? What's the record for fastest shower known to wizard?"

She shrugged listlessly, and slipped her socks and shoes on silently. "You're welcome to stay," she assured her two friends. "Bowie would appreciate the company, I'm sure."

Fred and George nodded as she passed them, understanding the implication just fine. She wanted to be with Oliver just now, and as much as she appreciated their humor and company, along with their concern for her wellbeing, she did not like being away from him, and did not want to be cheered up by anyone else but him.

"Hey," Fred called gently, standing and embracing her tightly, whispering in her ear quietly, "you know where we are."

"We'll be there in a jiff if you have want for us," George informed, taking his turn for a hug.

"Thank you," she said back, squeezing them each tightly, pulling away and offering a quick piece of advice as she went. "The remote's under the couch somewhere. Bowie 'hid' it from me, but I'm afraid he didn't manage a very good job."

The two dove under the couch immediately, each snatching at the small, black clicker, and Hermione smiled a small bit before she closed the door shut on her home and Apparated back into the frustratingly dull hospital. She'd long ago memorized her way back to Oliver's room, but she wordlessly questioned her sense of direction when she opened the door and found a sobbing woman at Oliver's bedside.

She slid in quietly and took the woman in, noting with dawning comprehension that she had Oliver's eyes, and his nose. Tears flooded the back of Hermione's lids once more and she covered her face, laughing slightly hysterically as Oliver's mum – or who she presumed was Oliver's mum – turned around, startled.

Hermione removed her hands from her face, wiping her tears away as they went. "I'm so sorry," she breathed, exhausted. "I must look a fright. I didn't – Well, of course I didn't mean to startle you," Hermione informed. "I – Oh, look at me. You haven't a clue who I am, and I'm here, ranting – _crying_, to boot. I'm Hermione Granger; I sent you a letter several days ago. I – "

"I know who you are," the woman assured softly, her Scottish burr eliciting a new torrent of tears from Hermione, as she so very much missed hearing Oliver's own Scottish tinge. "You've been the only thing poor Oliver talks about for a month or so now," she laughed gently, accepting Hermione's offered hand and taking it within hers lightly. "I've never seen my Oliver so besotted with anyone in my life. You must be some special sort of treasure, dear, as Oliver's had more than a woman or two make moves on him."

Hermione flushed and turned away from the woman, facing Oliver instead. She reached for his wrist and, as she'd done several times before, measured his pulse against her sensitive fingertips. It was slow, as it had been for three days, but its strength was growing, and that pleased her.

"Have they told you of his health?" Oliver's mother asked, carefully scrutinizing the girl's actions with her son.

"No," Hermione shook her head, a slightly sheepish expression befalling her countenance, "but he has a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and," she paused, taking her hand to her mouth as she listed off his ailments with great difficulty, "he's got some internal bleeding. I think they've taken care of most of it, but I doubt it'll go without pain, and internal bleeding usually takes a bit longer to heal than the rest."

Stuck on the first bit of imparted knowledge, and too stunned with her son's injuries to comment on the rest, Mrs. Wood asked, "How can you know if they haven't told you?"

"Legally," Hermione said, offering a small shrug and an ashamed glance toward Oliver's mum as Healer Kildroy and Healer Parks – a female Healer who had been asked to assist in Oliver's recovery – entered the room, "they can't tell me anything. But – "

"But that hasn't stopped her from analyzing every potion and salve that's been administered to your son," Healer Kildroy cast an affectionate, sympathetic smile in Hermione's direction. "I'm Healer Kildroy," he offered a hand, and shook hers when she presented it to him.

"Annabelle Wood," the woman proffered.

"Your son's been well seen to," Healer Parks said, placing another balm at Oliver's bedside, "and I don't exclusively mean the healers."

"Madam Granger has scarcely left his ward in the three days since his admittance, much against my attempts to send her home," Kildroy tucked a hand into the pocket of his robes as he casually spoke with Annabelle.

Hermione avoided looking at Oliver's mother at all costs, refusing to be embarrassed for being concerned, but all the same hoping that she hadn't left a rude impression on the older woman.

"He mentioned you were smart," Annabelle struggled to keep up with the pace within the room, but couldn't refrain from complimenting her intelligence. "He clearly neglected to mention that you'd been to the Merlin Institute, though. Really clever, are you?" She asked curiously, noting the design on Hermione's hoodie.

Hermione kept her eyes locked on a bruise at Oliver's cheek but shrugged in response, not aching terribly for praise unless it fell forth from Oliver's lips; she didn't especially yearn to hear his praise, either, but anything from his lips would be a blessing to her, at present.

Shocked, though, Healer Parks asked, "Haven't you heard of her? Especially in Scotland, I'd suppose, considering her Hogwarts record!"

"Pardon?"

Kildroy cleared his throat, noticing a stiffness in Hermione's back that had increased in the past few moments – not that it had been terribly relaxed before, as he'd noted on several occasions. "Madam Granger sped through her time at the Merlin Institute in a single semester, and graduated valedictorian with a Masters in Charms and a Minor in Potions. Quite the accomplished witch she is," he couldn't help but dote, as the girl had so much reason to be proud of her successes, although she seemed to derive very little pleasure from them.

But, he thought again, perhaps that was due more to the current condition of her boyfriend than an actual lack of personal joy. He rather doubted it, but that was not meant to be his concern, despite his recent fondness for the girl.

Hermione ignored the conversation around her, taking up her resident seat at Oliver's bedside chair and lifting his hand to press it lightly against her cheek as she rested her eyes for a moment, more to avoid the discussion than anything else. Oliver would know to divert the attention away from her; he would know how much she detested it.

But, at this very moment, she detested nothing more than the fact that he was not there to chuckle at her and sway the topic of discussion elsewhere.

"That's quite impressive," Annabelle commented lightly.

"Thank you," Hermione tried to tinge her gratefulness with a smile, but it waned slightly, in tandem with her thoughts of Oliver.

"I'm afraid there's little else we can do here," Parks declared decisively. "As I'm sure Madam Granger has already told you, there was a spot of internal bleeding that's still being cleared up, and there's going to be some pain to accompany his recovery as his body accommodates the newly mended bones, but he should be fit to leave soon after he regains consciousness."

At the dismayed look on his patient's mother's countenance, Healer Kildroy – as was his custom in the face of wavering emotions – shifted awkwardly and said, "It might've been quite a bit worse, Mrs. Wood, if Hermione hadn't reached the field as early as she had. He'd be regaining blood for a month – or quite possibly more – if she hadn't worked her charms on the deeper lacerations before carting him off here.

"You've quite a talent for our business, Madam Granger," Kildroy reported contemplatively. "You might consider a career as a healer. Trainee work is typified by wonky hours and lectures on incompetence by the senior Healers such as myself, but I find myself doubting that you would be intimidated by the implications of it."

Startled by the fact that the notion did not at once seem to dispel her, Hermione said nothing.

"I'll go ahead and make an offer of that, actually," Kildroy announced almost giddily. "I've no doubt that my superiors would approve of you, as the competition to have you is well-known to every wizarding business in Europe, to be honest, Madam. I'll make no promises to make glamorous offers to sway you – not that you're in need of it, as you're quite well off on your own – but I'd still appreciate if you could consider it."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I appreciate the offer."

A small shift beneath her fingers and a soft groan from the bed below gave Hermione cause to inhale a sharp breath, and hold it in. She wouldn't put it past her exhausted mind to drag up some illusion of Oliver's recovery, and so she waited with bated breath until he shifted again, grunting in pain.

"What the hell happened to me?" He mumbled blearily.

"Language," Hermione breathed quietly, all thought processes forgetting to filter her words as he came to. Her hand tightened around his and he looked up at her curiously, attempting to lift his right arm, but instead grimacing in pain as he found it to be sore and achy, the bones grinding against one another.

"We'll come back in a couple hours to discuss your condition, Mr. Wood," the healers excused themselves politely, aware that there were no dire injuries to be addressed that could not wait until the lad had greeted his mother and girlfriend.

"You look awful," Oliver chuckled dryly. "What on earth is wrong?"

"You _idiot_," she cursed him lightly. "You've been in this hospital bed for three days!"

"Have I?" He asked, relaxed. "You look as if you haven't slept in just as long. Miss me, love?"

She didn't answer, but ducked her head as she began to cry. "Of course I missed you," she said softly.

Oliver watched her silent tears as they danced a graceful path down her pale cheeks. The dark circles beneath her eyes attested to her fatigue, and he could all but feel the rigidness of her back; he happened to know that her back was the very last of her muscles to tighten when she was stressed, and although he hated that she had been so emotionally strained over his condition, he felt a slight twinge of pleasure at the thought of her being concerned for him.

"Come here," he murmured softly, taking his good arm and carefully pulling her toward him, unsure of where all of his injuries resided. He lifted his mouth slightly until she covered the distance that he could not, her mouth cautiously drawing his lower lip between her teeth. She sighed softly, the gentle kiss being more than enough for her at present.

Her eyes were closed as she rested her forehead against his. A slow smile slid over her face. "I suppose it would be too much to ask you to never get on a broomstick again?"

"Probably," he laughed. "But I'll endeavor not to fall off again, if it helps."

"Because you had every intention to be knocked off the first time?" Hermione asked sarcastically, swallowing the block in her throat that typically accompanied the tears.

"Of course," he said seriously.

"Oliver Wood," his mother chimed finally, unable to keep from breaking the moment any longer, "that's about the most awful thing I've ever heard you say, and you'll not do so again. Am I clear?"

He blinked twice, then stated blandly, "My mother's here."

"She was plenty kind before you woke up," Hermione teased him lightly, stepping away and apologizing to his mother profusely for forgetting that she was in the room, without actually stating that she'd forgotten the older woman was in the room.

"Cease your worrying," she said tenderly, eyeing Hermione with a practiced maternal eye. "You've committed no crime."

"That's up for debate," Oliver muttered cheekily.

Hermione silenced him with a glare. "Hush, you. I'm going to go get some coffee. Would either of you like anything?"

Oliver shook his head, winking at her, and he watched as she walked out, her eyes watering again. He suspected she needed a good cry, and he wouldn't deprive her of it, but he frowned at the idea that he had caused the tears.

He averted his gaze back to his mother, glancing her over suspiciously when her eyes glinted at him knowingly. "What?" He demanded.

"She's quite a woman, I hear," Annabelle mentioned softly.

"Mm," he hummed softly, and sped off on a tangent about how the two had gone to school together, but never spoke, and had met up once more after her graduation from the Merlin Institute.

Annabelle listened with care as her son spoke of his girlfriend with tenderness and, even if he was unaware of it, love. She resolved to invite the two over for supper after he'd been released, as she yearned to know the girl on a more in-depth level, and she wished to thank Hermione Granger for keeping watch over her son whilst she had been stuck at the Ministry of Magic in Scotland for three days, pleading desperately for a Portkey to be at his side.


End file.
